


a place called nostalgia

by twopinchesofcinnamon



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: AU, Akaashi plays guitar, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bokuto likes that a lot, Coffee Shop, M/M, Songfic, bokuto is smitten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23679628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twopinchesofcinnamon/pseuds/twopinchesofcinnamon
Summary: In a moment of rare, exhaustion spurred resignation, Bokuto treads into a coffee shop***“How often do you come for this?” Bokuto whispers to Suga, and then looks to the groups of people—people who all seem to know each other well, “How often do all of you come for this?”Suga’s dimples peek out from his cheeks, “Often. I couldn’t really tell you what it is. He’s just—,” he tilts his eyes to Akaashi, who plucks silent notes from a blue-shaded guitar, “—special, y’know. Or, you’ll hear, I guess.”“Cool,” Bokuto mumbles, brain caught on a previous conversation, “and about that word—?”And then Akaashi starts to sing.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Kudos: 54





	a place called nostalgia

In a moment of rare, exhaustion spurred resignation, Bokuto treads into a coffee shop.

It's not his usual scene; sleepy sorts of places like this only exist for him in fleeting dreams and his old bedtime stories.

The sign out front sways and groans with thrilled flurries of wind as he opens the door, and all at once a cozy aura settles sweetly on his shoulders.

Tawny cinnamon lathers his tongue at the smells from the hidden kitchen, trickling into his throat and down to his toes. Normally, Bokuto is all frantic pep and buzzing energy, but this place is like a fireplace, a suede lullaby perpetually purring in the background, quelling his usual bravado.

He sidles up to the register and pastries greet him in a practiced line. Vibrant cookies, cloud-fluff lemon bread, lopsided muffins, brownies decorated by cheered almonds—they all make Bokuto's mouth water just a little, and he nearly wishes that Kuroo had tagged along for a taste.

"What'll it be?" the man at the register putts his knuckles against the counter, his eyes slanted and body drooping comfortably. His name-tag reads _Konoha_ in hazel calligraphy. The 'o's and 'a' are carefully drawn over to resemble different animal eyes.

"Uh," Bokuto flits over the ensemble of sugar once more, pinpointing something for himself and Kuroo, "How about...pumpkin bread? And a peanut butter cookie! And can I get the cookie to-go, please?"

His voice is jarringly loud despite his effort to match with the atmosphere, but "Konoha" bats no eyes and rings him up.

"Six-fifty. And if you want to stick around until seven, our Saturday performer will be showing up around then. All of his tips go to the shelter down the street."

Bokuto counts out his dues and hands them over. He knows the shelter—it's run by Kuroo's buddies from school, Yaku and this lumbering Russian boy whom Bokuto can't remember the name of, but remembers finding somewhat hysterical on the occasion that they met.

Konoha fiddles with the tricky keys on the register and it responds with a half-hearted ding, "Alright, thank you for coming to _Nostalgia_. Your order will be out shortly."

"Thanks," Bokuto flashes a moony smile and settles himself onto an autumn-toned sofa, abundant with orange floral patterns and leaves.

He fiddles with the seams swinging at frayed bits of the cushions, careful not to tug any of them too hard, and waits for his order. Somehow, his fizzing anxiety is pacified by the sugar-sweet aroma of the whole building. He almost feels as if he could peacefully keel into a dreamless sleep.

Time passes like molasses here, and Bokuto is encased by the homey presence of this quaint little shop. Dangling ceiling lights wink at him from above, some crackling in one final display before their bulbs will simmer soon. He thinks, strangely, that they might be putting on a show for him.

At some point, another worker relays his order, and at some point, Bokuto scoops the to-go bag and yellow-rimmed plate from the little pick-up area. He nibbles at his pumpkin bread; it’s fluffy and just like the muffins his mom used to make, so he tries his best to savor it—a culinary practice that he is not used to.

And, at another point, the sofas and loveseats start to fill as more and more people trickle inside. Bokuto nearly misses this development in his meticulous consumption of the food, wading through childhood memories themed around all of his light-hearted baking endeavors.

“Is this seat taken?”

Bokuto glances upwards at the lovely tone of the voice, and he finds an almost fantastical man with wispy hair and eyes to match the almonds scattered across the display sweets.

He swallows and clears his throat a little awkwardly, scooting to the side a little, “No, no, you’re fine!” He’s still trying to tone down his voice, and he thinks that this time he’s at least reached normal speaking volume.

“Thank you,” this man’s smile is another thing to remind Bokuto of his mother, and he holds out his hand, “My name’s Sugawara, but feel free to call me Suga. Are you here to see the Saturday performance too?”

“Bokuto,” he says, shaking the hand and rubbing his neck sheepishly, “I actually meant to leave here...around an hour ago now, but I guess I lost track of time.”

Suga just laughs in the way Bokuto imagines an angel would, “Yeah, this place will do that to you. I used to work here and even then I would go for hours in a sort of trance.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto pinches Kuroo’s cookie bag, feeling it between the pads of his calloused fingers and listening to the _crinkle_ of the plastic, “Trance is a good word for it. It feels...I don’t really know how to describe it?”

Which is so _bizarre_ , because his vocabulary may not be as extensive as Kuroo or Oikawa’s, but always has something to add. And this place has rendered him—not speechless, per say, but he’s mellow in a way that he only ever was on snowy days in elementary school.

Suga simply twitches his silver eyebrows as if he’s just shared a familiar sentiment, “I think...the word you’re looking for is probably closer than you realize.”

Riddles, Bokuto thinks fondly—if not in exasperation—of Kuroo and his tilted, twisting, wordplaying puzzles.

“Ooh!” Suga claps his hands together just as Bokuto opens his mouth to ask what he meant, “He’s here.”

Bokuto would ask who, but the hush that seeps through the room like dripping honey points to a single figure at the door.

Just as the word for this place escapes him, so does an apt description for the man center-stage. But, if he racks his brain for a decent enough analogy, Bokuto would say that this is the fairy to Suga’s angel.

The man is jagged in a soft kind of way. His eyes gleam with intellect and observation, but they also glow with a candied familiarity. His clothes hang off of him all baggy and fluff-like, and bursting in cordial browns. If he had wings, Bokuto thinks they would be golden, with black streaks to match his hair.

The man steps carefully onto a rise at the front of the store, and taps his finger against the mic waiting for him—an old friend, almost. A myriad of people and voices watch him, anticipating—Bokuto and Suga included, as well as Konoha, who’s leaning leisurely by the register again. There’s no feedback from the mic.

“Hello there, everyone,” the man’s voice is a feather slowly dragging across the ridges in Bokuto’s mind, “My name is Akaashi Keiji. I have a couple songs prepared for today, so please enjoy. All donations are appreciated and will go to our friends, Lev and Yaku.”

Akaashi gestures to another spot, and Bokuto hadn’t noticed or recognized them before now. He’s never seen Yaku in such a relaxed state, high-strung personality around his gaggle of puppies nowhere in sight. Lev, too, who Bokuto doesn’t know well at all, is slouched so that he almost seems average.

“Thank you for your time,” Akaashi hums with such practiced ease that Bokuto knows that line is a common one.

“How often do you come for this?” he whispers to Suga, and then looks to the groups of people—people who all seem to know each other well, “How often do _all_ of you come for this?”

Suga’s dimples peek out from his cheeks, “Often. I couldn’t really tell you what it is. He’s just—,” he tilts his eyes to Akaashi, who plucks silent notes from a blue-shaded guitar, “—special, y’know. Or, you’ll hear, I guess.”

“Cool,” Bokuto mumbles, brain caught on a previous conversation, “and about that word—?”

And then Akaashi starts to sing.

Belatedly, Bokuto realizes that the intro to the song had been swaying out of the speakers for some time now, and this is what it takes for him to hone in on the music.

 _Music_. Bokuto has never been the type to wax poetic about anything in the arts; his passion is in training, and sweating, and grappling up a steep mountain to reach a goal.

That mountain seems a bit smaller now.

Because Akaashi’s voice isn’t golden-gate-worthy, or princely, or wrapped in budding potential.

It just...it sounds like _home_.

He croons verse, verse, chorus, verse, and Bokuto’s father is sitting criss-cross right next to him, laying Go Fish cards on the old, ugly frieze carpet. His mom is somewhere behind, just taking those pumpkin muffins out of the oven. Layla is cuddled at his feet, grey whiskers tickling at his ankles, her tail wagging and strumming against the floor.

Suga’s eyes glaze over, and so do everyone else’s. There’s no line for food, and no one comes in, somehow.

Bokuto sinks further into his seat, laces his fingers together (fingers for causing the resounding _smack_ of a volleyball, and fingers for rubbing that one spot on Layla’s head) and closes his eyes.

For once, Bokuto doesn’t worry, or babble, or joke. He listens.

At some point, the words cease, but it feels like the music still breathes inside of his blood.

“That was _amazing_ ,” he breathes, even though it’s unnecessary.

Suga sighs, “Yeah. He’s always like that. He hangs around with some of the staff afterwards. He worked here before I came, so he knows mostly everyone. You should go talk to him.”

Bokuto brushes off the crumbs clinging to his pants, and nearly meets eyes with Akaashi, who gingerly closes the clasps on his guitar case. He waves at multiple people, blush and stardust dusting across his cheeks.

And, it was never really and option.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I will.”

***

Sometime later, it hits him: that finicky _word_ that embodies a coffee shop just around the corner, and a dark-haired man that plays guitar like an extra limb (and, it should be noted: is saved in the contacts of Bokuto’s phone under _Keiji_ , per the man in question’s request. No conversation quite yet, but he’ll get there eventually).

Bokuto waves at Kuroo and signals him to pull out his earbuds. They’ve both been lolling on opposite sides of the couch, tapping at their phones.

“Are you free this Saturday?”

Kuroo bites his lip in thought.

“Yeah, I think so. What’s up?”

Bokuto grins in that million-watt way of his.

“Well, there’s this place called _Nostalgia_...”


End file.
